Midnight in Paris
by Celtic Aurora
Summary: Paris, 1630. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are the top hunters in the King's Huntsmen, sworn to protect France from all manner of supernatural creatures. With a powerful female vampire threatening to destroy peace in Paris, it's up to the three - with the help of young d'Artagnan - to take down this threat once and for all...and to discover what makes a monster and what makes a man.
1. The Dispatcher

**One**

_The Dispatcher_

It was just about an hour before dawn, and the garrison was going to sleep.

Several of the hunters were still milling about the courtyard, tending to gear, polishing weapons, or else drinking or playing dice. But many had ended their games for the night, put up their gear and stabled their horses. Many were heading back to their chambers for the night.

Two men, seated near the gates to the garrison, were not.

"Where is he?" The smaller of the two men cast a glance upward, at the pre-dawn gray sky, frowning. "It's almost dawn."

"Easy, Athos." The bigger of the two men seemed far more at ease than his companion, leaning back and putting his battered boots on the table. A half-empty bottle of wine sat at his elbow, and he grabbed it, bringing it to his lips and taking a long sip. "He'll be back. He always comes back."

"He's never gone this late." Athos ran a hand through his mop of dark-brown hair. "At this rate, he's going to miss the gate closing."

"He'll be fine." The bigger man shook his head. "Besides, even if he misses the gate closing, it's not like it's a big deal. I'm sure there'll be a stable hand about or something to let him in."

"Or he could decide that, instead of trying to get in and sleep in his own bed, he could go find someone else's bed to go sleep in for the day," Athos remarked. "Do you really trust him by himself in the middle of the day in Paris, Porthos?"

Porthos snorted. "Oh, he'll be fine. You worry too much."

Suddenly, there was a snort from outside the gates – a horse's snort. Athos sat up straighter at the sound, and Porthos shook his head, grinning and lowering his feet from the table.

"See? Told you he'd be back."

A black-clad blur came galloping through the gates, startling everyone still in the courtyard. The rider reared the horse, a gorgeous black stallion, about in the middle of the yard, tugging on the reigns to still the animal. A pair of cunning chocolate-brown eyes peered out from under the wide brim of the rider's hat, and as he pulled down the mask concealing the lower half of his face, he broke out into a grin.

"And lo, a cry goes out as he, the mighty Dispatcher, returns!" he called, to the amusement of the few hunters still in the yard. As he dismounted, a scattered applause went up. Leaving his horse in the confident hands of the stable boy, he sauntered over to his two friends waiting by the gates. As he approached, Athos rolled his eyes.

"The Dispatcher? Really, Aramis?"

Aramis smirked, whisking his hat off to run a hand through his sweat-dampened black curls. "They wouldn't call me that if I wasn't so good at what I did."

"Aramis, _nobody_ calls you that," Athos said, rolling his eyes.

"In fact, as I remember, you started calling yourself that," Porthos added. Aramis frowned, sticking out his bottom lip in a childish pout.

"You two are absolutely no fun," he said.

"Did you get your prize?" Athos asked.

"Athos, please." Aramis reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling out a handful of bloodied teeth, all sharp and pointed and lethal. "When I do not get my prize?"

"Oh, I can think of a time or two…"

Aramis snorted, pocketing the teeth. "Yes, a time or two after…what, eight, nine years of this? I think I've earned myself a title like The Dispatcher. I am so good at dispatching these things to hell, after all."

"Yes, yes, you're so good at it," Athos said, shaking his head. "All fear the mighty hunter Aramis."

"Hey, let him have his moment," Porthos said, nudging his tousled-headed friend, before slinging an arm around Aramis's shoulders. "Werewolf?"

"Oh yes. My favorite kind of kill," Aramis said, grabbing the bottle of wine from the table and taking a deep drink.

"Well, details!" Porthos snatched the bottle, drinking.

"Well, I was a few miles out from the city when I met the nasty beast," Aramis began, snatching the bottle back. "Easily seven and a half, maybe eight feet tall, big and bulky, all snarling teeth and black fur. He tried to bite me a few times, but fortunately, he never quite got past the armor. He did grab me from my horse, though, and nearly got my musket away from me, but, in the end, the Dispatcher always gets his prey."

"You're so insufferable sometimes, you know that, right?" Athos reached for the bottle in the middle of the table, bringing it to his lips and drinking. He shuddered as he swallowed. "God, this stuff tastes like piss."

"Then why are you drinking it?" Porthos asked, reaching for the bottle. Athos held it a little closer, taking another drink.

"Because I need it to get through Aramis's stories."

"Ah, excuse me." A young boy – one of the messengers employed by the garrison – approached their table cautiously with wide eyes. "You three are Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, yes?"

"None other." Aramis inclined his head to the boy, who couldn't have been any older than twelve and looked absolutely dumbstruck. "What can we do for you?"

"I-I have a message from Captain Treville. He wants to see you three in his office now."

"All three of us?" Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, who seemed equally as confused as he was. "But only Aramis was out on assignment tonight. Porthos and I were merely out on patrol."

"He asked to see all three of you," the boy said. "He didn't tell me any more than that."

"Well, then," Aramis said, standing and grabbing his hat, sweeping it back onto his head. "Best not keep the captain waiting, then."

The three of them swept up the stairs, to the end of the overhanging walkway, where the door to Captain Treville's office had been left ajar. Athos knocked on the door, two short, quick raps.

"Come in, come in – and close the door behind you."

They filed in, Aramis closing the door after he stepped in. Captain John Treville's office was dark, lit only by a handful of candles on his desk. The desk itself was strewn with maps and various letters, which looked as though he'd made an attempt to organize them and then given up halfway through. The captain was a man nearing fifty, but he still carried himself with the bearing of a soldier half his age – even sitting in his chair his back was ramrod straight and his shoulders were squared. He looked up from the letter he was poring over, setting it aside at the sight of his three best-ranked hunters.

"Good evening, Captain Treville," they greeted in unison.

"Status report," he said.

"The streets are quiet," Athos said, shrugging. "I patrolled from here to the palace to Notre Dame and found nothing."

"I caught some rumors in a tavern about some kind of spirit at some church near the outskirts of the city," Porthos said. "Rode out there but didn't find anything."

"Well, keep an eye on that," Treville ordered. "Aramis, did you find the werewolf I sent you for?"

"Of course," Aramis said, reaching into his pouch again and drawing out the teeth. "Brought you a little souvenir, Captain. I don't think he'll be needing them."

"Ah, yes…thank you, Aramis," he said, watching with mild disgust as Aramis deposited the bloodied lycanthrope teeth on his desk.

"What do you need us for, Captain?" Athos said. "The messenger said you wanted to see us."

"I've been getting some letters, from a correspondent at the palace," Treville explained. "He writes that he keeps feeling a presence about the palace – a threatening presence, and it worries him."

"All right," Aramis said. "Ghost?"

"Hard to say," Treville said. "The letters are vague."

"So why are we concerned?" Athos asked, casting a glance over Treville's shoulder, at the narrow window behind his desk. The sky was getting lighter, the gray shot through with pink now. He wanted to leave. He wanted to head back to his room. His stomach was starting to hurt, and he just barely managed to conceal his grimace with a bored look. "If the letters are so vague, what is there for us to be concerned about?"

"Because this is at the palace," Treville said. "This is a matter of the safety of the King and Queen. And therefore, it's a matter of my personal concern. Tomorrow night, I'm putting the three of you on patrol at the palace."

"All right," Aramis said, nodding. "Never been inside the palace."

"I didn't think they'd let the likes of us in," Porthos remarked with a chuckle.

"The Queen might faint dead away if she sees how dirty our boots are," Aramis snorted.

"Cardinal Richelieu will see to it that you are welcomed into the palace," Treville said. "He understands the importance of protecting the King and Queen from the creatures we deal with – Satan's familiars, he calls them. Speaking of him – " He cast a pointed look to Aramis. "You need to go see him, he's downstairs in the chapel."

"Why do I need to go see him again?" Aramis asked.

"To get his blessing for your successful mission. You know the routine, Aramis." Treville stood, nodding respectfully to them. "Dismissed. Rest up for your mission tonight."

They all nodded respectfully to him, departing his office for their respective destinations – Aramis to the chapel to see Richelieu, Porthos and Athos to their quarters across the garrison. Athos hurried ahead of Porthos a few steps, his strides determined. He had to get back to his room. His chest felt horribly tight, and the pain in his stomach made him feel like he'd been punched. He had to make it back to his room. Every step felt like a mile…

"Easy, slow down," Porthos called, jogging to catch up with him. "You okay?"

"Fine," he said, forcing himself to slow down, though slowing down made him want to scream. "Just…eager to get to bed. Long night."

"I hear you on that," Porthos said, stopping at his door. "Until tomorrow night, Athos. Goodnight."

"You too, Porthos."

He waited until his swarthy friend had disappeared into his room, then took off for his own quarters at a half-run. He threw the door open as soon as he got to it, ducking inside and slamming the door shut. With the thick shutters closed and the curtains drawn over the shutters, the room was pitch-black, but it didn't bother him. He leaned against the door, doubling over, clutching at his stomach and gritting his teeth to hold back an agonized groan.

_Oh God, no, no, hold it together, hold yourself together…_

He grabbed an empty bucket from near the foot of his bed, hanging his head over it in just enough time to vomit the wine he'd just drank not even fifteen minutes earlier. The act left his stomach burning, his entire body aching – and did nothing to kill the hunger that had set in deep. Once he was sure he was done, he drew back the drapes and unlatched the shutter, sticking the bucket outside the window – he knew nobody would question the half-digested wine in it, they'd just wash it and fill it with water for him – and closing the window back up again, stumbling over to his bed and sinking down onto it, rubbing his face.

It was times like these he felt far older than his twenty-seven years. Five years, and he still couldn't stomach it, no matter how hard he tried. This wasn't as bad as it had been. He'd come a long way in five years. But still…it was only by sheer force alone that he'd gotten this far.

He groaned, lying back on his bed, hands cradled under his head, staring up at the ceiling. The sun was coming up – not that he could tell through the darkness of his room, but he just knew it was. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the hunger burning in his stomach. Breathing deeply, in, then out. Focusing on anything but that…

It wasn't working.

With a groan, he rolled over, burying his face into his pillow. If nothing else, he could use it to muffle his screams of frustration.


	2. Palais de Louvre

**A/N: **_Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, reviewed, etc! _

* * *

><p><strong>Two<strong>

_Palais de Louvre_

It was right around sunset that Athos woke up, his throat raw and his muscles stiff. The hunger was still raging through him – sleep had done nothing to dull it. His hands were shaking; it was starting to get bad. There was going to have to be a meal at some point, otherwise, he'd be no good to Treville. He'd be no good on patrol if all he could think about was the damned hunger.

He went to his window, to see if the bucket of water had been left there as he wanted. He'd need it to wash up – the cold water always helped snap him back to awareness. He tucked the curtain aside, then carefully opened the window, just enough to reach out and grab the bucket. The bucket was out there and full of water, but there was also something else, sitting right next to the bucket. Cautiously, he peered out the window. Next to the bucket was a bottle, half-full of a thick, dark-red liquid, a note tied to it. He hauled the bucket of water back inside, then grabbed the bottle, pulling the shutter closed. In the low light of his room, he ripped the note from the bottle and read it over.

_Athos,_

_Knew you would need this for tonight. Venison._

_Treville_

Captain Treville. God, he could have thrown himself at Treville's feet and kissed his boots in gratitude for this. He pulled the cork out with his teeth; his hands were shaking too much to do it. As soon as the bottle was open it was to his lips and he was drinking furiously, savoring the taste. It's not the best, but it killed the hunger that had been gnawing at him. And, if nothing else, it was still somewhat warm.

He finished the contents of the bottle quickly, setting it aside to dispose of it quietly later. The bucket of water was next, to help with the fog of sleep – though that was slightly diminished now that the hunger was gone. There was a thin layer of ice on the top of the water in the bucket; he punched through it, before sticking his entire head into the bucket to really wake himself up. He was supposed to be joining Aramis and Porthos almost as soon as the sun went down. Palace guard assignments waited for no man. Getting groomed was going to have to be quick tonight.

He skipped shaving – it was too much effort to expend, and besides, his beard was fine, it wasn't that out of control. He stripped his shirt for a new one, tucking it into his pants and grabbing the familiar layers that were strewn across the room from there. The leather doublet went first, then the jacket, the pauldron fixed firmly to his shoulder. The cloth mask that he and the others used to protect and conceal the lower halves of their faces, that went tied around his neck – it would be unseemly to present himself to the King and Queen with that thing over his face. The cloak was next, and it would be a necessity, as it was getting colder out. His sword belt got strapped around his waist, his blade – silver, of course – slipped into the scabbard on his left side, his pistol in the holster on the right. His gloves cover his hands – he's going to need those too, with the steadily-dropping October temperatures. Finally, last is his hat, perched atop his hair, which is gradually curling as it dries. He's ready to go out and face his duties as one of the King's Huntsmen.

* * *

><p>"Well, there you are."<p>

Aramis is already mounted on his horse when Athos makes his way to the gates of the garrison, the stable hand leading his own horse behind him. Porthos is placing his hat on his head, watching as Athos joins them in the courtyard of the garrison.

"We were starting to wonder if you were coming or not," Porthos remarked, placing one foot in the stirrups of his horse and swinging himself onto the horse's back.

"Sorry, was just…getting ready. Washed up." He thanked the ostler who had brought him his horse, stroking the horse's neck and checking to make sure the bridle was in its proper place. "Figured I'd take the time to actually seem like I care about my appearance. We're only meeting the king and queen."

Truth to tell, Athos had only ever been close to the king and queen once, when he received his commission to the Huntsmen three and a half years ago. And that had been for such a brief moment he'd scarcely gotten a good look at them. Aside from that, the king and queen conducted all their business during the day, protected from what would threaten them during the day by another regiment of guards. The Huntsmen were responsible for taking care of that which would threaten the country at night.

"Did you eat something?" Aramis asked as Athos swung himself onto his horse.

"I did," he said, glancing upwards, noticing Treville on the overhang, watching as the three of them mounted their horses. He gave Treville a small, grateful nod, and the captain responded with a nod of his own, as well as a pointed look – the kind of look that said you need to get better at keeping up with your needs, you fool.

It wasn't the first time he'd given Athos that look.

Probably wouldn't be the last.

"Let's go," he said, focusing his attention on the open gates. "We don't want to keep Their Majesties waiting."

He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, giving the reins a sharp snap and taking off out of the gate at a steady canter. Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look behind him – suspecting something was perhaps a little off about their comrade – before they, too, spurred their horses on, heading for the palace.

* * *

><p>Armand Richelieu was waiting for them as soon as the three of them rode up to the front of the palace. During the day, the Palais de Louvre was a magnificent sight to behold, with its massive façade and ornate ivory brickwork, the fountains spewing water high into the air and the gardens lush and green. All that detail, however, was lost in the darkness of the evening. Almost all the lights in the palace had been extinguished. The cardinal stood in a circle of torchlight, held by a palace servant; he was an older man, older than Treville, imposing with his red robes and his consistently sour expression, as if someone had stuck something foul-smelling under his nose. The trio rode up to him, dismounting, Aramis grabbing his arquebus from the holster on his saddle as he did.<p>

"Cardinal Richelieu," Athos greeted with a nod – for whatever reason, he always seemed to be the one that does the diplomatic talking. Porthos and Aramis always argued that he had the most experience with it, growing up as part of the nobility. They knew that much about him, though fortunately, they'd yet to figure out exactly how wealthy his family had been, how much land they owned. Thank God for small favors. Whatever the case was, though, when it came to doing the talking, the role was usually deferred to Athos.

"Good evening Athos, Porthos, Aramis," he greeted, with a nod – it's more jerk of the head than a nod, but at least he's bothered to acknowledge them. "You are running late. The King and Queen are ready to retire for the evening."

"Well, they needn't have waited on us," Porthos said with a shrug, exchanging a look with Aramis.

"Her Majesty insisted on greeting the Huntsmen assigned to protect herself and her husband this evening," Richelieu said. "She always insists."

"Well, then, let's not keep her waiting." Athos gestured towards the palace. "After you, Your Eminence."

Giving them a cold look, Richelieu swept up the stairs in a swish of his red robes, heading in through the massive doors of the palace. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis followed along; while they didn't expect any threats right away, that didn't stop Athos from keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword, nor did it do anything to loosen Aramis's grip on his arquebus.

Their footsteps echoed loudly on the cool stone floors. Richelieu led them through a winding series of hallways, long enough that they're started to wonder if they're going to find the king and queen before daybreak. Finally, Richelieu stops in front of a set of double doors, guarded by two of the palace guards.

"The king's solar," he announced, and the guards each opened one of the doors. The room beyond was richly decorated, a sign of the wealth of the occupants of the castle. In front of the vast windows that looked out over the gardens was a massive desk, covered with many curious odds and ends that almost didn't seem suited for a king – including a replica of a ship, complete with not French, but Dutch flags flying from the tiny mast. A telescope was in the corner near a window, although it looked a bit dusty, as though it had not been touched in a while. Several bookshelves were placed throughout the room and filled with books, but the action in the room was taking place in the middle, where there were several chairs carved from exotic woods and a divan covered in richly-embroidered brocade. On the divan was a petite young woman, one they had all seen, but only a few times since receiving their commissions. She was wrapped in a warm cloak, but they could all see a hint of thin, white fabric peeking from the top, suggesting that she was wearing nothing but a nightgown underneath. In a chair so elaborate it's practically a throne of its own sat a man maybe a few years her senior, wearing a silk dressing gown. He was talking to the woman, smiling, even, but as soon as the doors opened, he was on his feet, facing the intruders.

There was no mistaking who he was: Louis XIII, the King of France. Richelieu swept him a bow, and Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all did the same, staring down at the floor. The young woman – Queen Anne, she could be no other – rose from the divan, and they remained bowing for her.

"Rise," the man commanded imperiously.

"Your Majesty," Richelieu began, rising. "The Huntsmen, as requested. Three of Captain Treville's finest men."

"Which of you is the leader?" Louis asked, his dark eyes sweeping over the three hunters in front of him. Knowing it was either step forward or be pushed forward by Aramis and Porthos, Athos stepped forward, sweeping his hat off to place it against his chest.

"I am Athos, of the King's Huntsmen," he introduced himself. "These are my companions, Porthos and Aramis."

"Athos has distinguished himself as one of Captain Treville's finest hunters in his years of service," Richelieu said. "His companions, Porthos and Aramis, also have records of note. They are easily the best that the Huntsmen have to offer."

"Oh, look," Aramis whispered to Porthos as Richelieu rattled on. "He's making us sound so good."

"Why do I feel like the lamb about to be lead to the slaughter?" Porthos hissed back. Athos glanced back to cut the two of them a glare, and they fell silent – just in time, too, as Richelieu had concluded his rambling. Louis stepped forward, close…but not too close. Anne came to his side; she had to be the kinder of the two, there was something in her face that suggested it. Her gaze was curious, not shrewd, like her husband's.

"Has Captain Treville discussed why you three have been brought here?" Louis asked.

"We've been made aware of the situation, but not much beyond that," Athos responded. "Why have we been brought here, if I may ask?"

"These past few nights, we've felt…a presence in the palace," Louis said, eyes glancing about nervously, as though he expected something to attack them right there in the solar. "We're not sure what it is, but it makes us feel…vulnerable."

"We trust Treville's Huntsmen to be the best at what they do," Anne said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Louis's shoulder. He gave her a look – vaguely affectionate, he appeared to have appreciated her comfort.

"Then you have put your trust in the right place," Athos said, nodding firmly. "Where did you sense this…presence? Precisely where in the palace?"

"The first floor, towards the left wing," Louis said. "We do not go there often at night, but that is where the guards have reported feeling the presence. I went to that wing a few evenings ago, and I confess, I could feel it too."

"Well, then, that's where we'll start," Athos said, nodding. "If we may?"

"Yes, of course. Please."

Athos nodded, as did Porthos and Aramis. They turned to leave, although they were stopped by Cardinal Richelieu, who had them bow again. As soon as they had bowed, they set off, towards the left wing of the palace.

Upon arriving at that wing, the three hunters could instantly tell it was not a very popular wing of the castle. While it was obviously still cared for, the cleaning was perhaps a bit less precise; a few wispy spider webs could be found in the corners, and motes of dust floated in the patches of moonlight let in by the large windows. The three of them followed the hallway down, until it branched off into three separate corridors – one to the left, another to the right, and the third continuing straight ahead. They all exchanged glances.

"We'd cover more ground if we split up," Aramis suggested.

"We'd also lose our backup if we actually encounter something down one of these halls," Porthos informed him. "I'd rather stick together, if it's all the same."

"If we run into something, we can call for backup. It's simple as that," Aramis argued, giving Porthos a mildly insulted look.

"Are you suggesting that I couldn't handle a problem by myself if I ran into one?"

"I didn't suggest anything," Aramis said. "You're the one putting words into my mouth."

"Why I never – "

"Aramis is right," Athos cut in, breaking off the admittedly playful argument his two companions were having. "We'd cover more ground if we split up. I'll take the center corridor. Aramis, you take left, Porthos, right. We find something, we take care of it. If we need help, we call for it. I think that sounds fair enough, don't you two?"

"I suppose it does," Porthos said, nodding.

"Our unquestioned leader," Aramis commented with a faint smirk.

"We'll rendezvous here in, say, an hour?" Athos asked.

The other two nodded, and, with little bows to each other, set off down their respective hallways. Athos listened to the faint footsteps of his companions as long as he could, until they were far enough into the corridors that he couldn't hear them anymore. Despite being the center corridor, he could tell that guests back here were few and far between. The drapes were faded from years of sunlight expose, and the furniture was showed some signs of imperfections that would not have been permitted in the more populated wings of the palace. The dust was thicker here – clearly, the maids either didn't wish to venture here. Or, perhaps, they feared the presence that the king and queen claimed to be residing in this wing of the palace?

While he couldn't say he felt a presence, in particular, there was something about the empty wing that made him feel unsettled. This wing of the palace was old – and he could feel it, as if the history was seeping through the walls. His footsteps echoed loudly against the stone floor. He placed his hand on the guard of his sword, ready to draw it if needed.

The corridor ended in an old drawing room, clearly abandoned for the better drawing rooms he'd seen in the right wing of the palace. He looked around – the room looked familiar. Quite familiar, in fact. He'd never been there before, but…this drawing room reminded him of a manor, far away. Of another life, a life he'd almost forgotten about, a love he'd tried to forget about.

He shivered. Now that he was in the room, he could feel it. That shivery feeling down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, he knew that feeling all too well.

He was not alone.

"_Olivier._"

He spun, quickly, staring into the corner. He swore, he swore that was where he heard it, heard that name that he hadn't been called in nearly five years now. But the corner was empty, no one was there.

"_Olivier._"

There it was again, more insistent this time, coming from a different corner. He spun again, just in time to catch a flash of cloth. The curtains, blowing in a breeze? But where would that breeze have come from, when the windows were tightly closed? No, these were not the curtains. It had to have been a bit of clothing, another person. He wasn't alone. He drew his blade, holding it out in front of him, turning in a tight circle. Instinct told him to try to get his back against the wall – never leave your back unprotected, they always went for the back. But he was far more determined to figure out what – or who – was in there with him. The moonlight, streaming in from the tall windows, caught the silver in his blade, making it gleam.

"Show yourself," he murmured.

"_Olivier!_"

The voice came from behind him. He whipped around, his sword slicing upwards in a deadly arc, but all he caught was thin air. His heart thudded in his chest. Someone was in there with him, playing games with his head. Someone was calling him that name, that name that brought to mind sharp green eyes and sinfully crimson lips. He breathed out hard, teeth clenched, heart beating so hard and so fast he swore it would explode or stop entirely.

He couldn't take it.

He hurried from the room, heading back towards the rendezvous point as fast as he could, hoping to put that room – and those memories that it brought – behind him.

* * *

><p>"Athos?"<p>

He opened his eyes, finding himself face-to-face with his own pale reflection. He had been waiting in the main corridor, head resting against the glass of a nearby window, trying to use the coolness of the glass to ground him back to reality. To wipe the memories away. He straightened up, turning around to face his companions. He hadn't realized the hour was up already. Porthos and Aramis stood behind him, looking no worse for wear – although Aramis's boots, he noticed, we more than just a little dusty. Both of them were looking at him with concern. He swallowed hard.

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Nothing much," Porthos said, shaking his head. "Mostly dusty rooms. A few cobwebs."

"Any sign of a presence?" he asked.

"Nothing that I've seen," Aramis said. "I won't deny, it is a little…unsettling back here, but there's no presence that I sensed."

"Same here," Porthos said. Athos nodded. They hadn't felt that presence. Had he been the only one to feel it?

"Athos, are you all right?"

He shook himself from his reverie. Aramis was staring at him, head tilted to the side, eyes concerned.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"Are you all right?" Aramis repeated. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Oh, if only Aramis knew the half of it. If only Aramis knew what he had heard down in that hallway, knew that name, that name that had brought back so many memories of a life he thought he'd finally turned his back on. A life that was as dead as the brother he once knew and loved. A life as dead as he believed her to be.

But now, after tonight, after what he had heard down in that hallway…he wasn't so sure that she was as gone as he thought she was.

"More like the ghost has seen me," he said.


	3. Thrall

**A/N:** _Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited, or followed the story so far!_

* * *

><p><strong>Three<strong>

_Thrall_

"Did the Huntsmen report finding anything?"

There was little over an hour before dawn, and Louis was still in his solar, wide-awake and pacing like a child waiting for Christmas morning. Anne, he said, had long since gone to bed, feeling reassured having the Huntsmen there to patrol the palace. Clearly, that was not a feeling that her husband shared.

"They said they found nothing," Richelieu said, shaking his head. They had departed not half an hour ago, after reporting back to him that they had found nothing – although Athos looked so pale and startled that he had to wonder if they were lying to cover up for something. "They explored the wing as thoroughly as time allowed, but found nothing."

"I don't understand. Why are they finding nothing?" Louis rounded on Richelieu, his expression angry – but the Cardinal could see it in his eyes, Louis was scared. A scared child asking his parents to fend off the monsters under his bed. "There is something in that wing of the palace, and I will not have it be dismissed so easily!"

"No one is dismissing it, Your Majesty," Richelieu said, doing his best to soothe the king's temper. So many years in service to Louis had gotten him used to his petulant tantrums. "The Huntsmen simply have not found anything as of yet. They've only had one night here at the palace. It may be that they need more time."

"I do hope that is the only issue," Louis pouted, sinking into a chair. "I should hate to think my prize Huntsmen are growing incompetent."

"Never, Your Majesty," Richelieu said, shaking his head – although he could deny, his heart gave a gleeful little start at the thought of the Huntsmen being considered inept by none other than the man who had insisted so much on commissioning them in the first place. "You created them, after all. And your judgment is infallible."

"Quite right." He nodded, though he still didn't look so sure of himself. Richelieu glanced out the windows again. Another quite pressing matter was calling his attention, and he needed to deal with it presently. Before the sun came up. "I beg Your Majesty's indulgence. I have affairs I must attend to before retiring for the day."

"Of course." Louis remained seated while Richelieu swept him a bow. Before the Cardinal could leave, however, the king stood. "Cardinal?"

Richelieu turned around. "Yes, my liege?"

"Promise me this will be stopped," Louis asked. "Before the situation escalates. Before people start turning up dead."

"I swear, it will be done," Richelieu said, nodding. "Now, you should go rest, Your Majesty. After all, you have a country to run."

"I do. I shall leave you to your tasks, Cardinal."

Richelieu swept him one last bow, before hurrying from the room. He had a meeting to make.

* * *

><p>The windows of Richelieu's own home, the Palais du Cardinal, were still dark by the time he arrived, panting slightly, at the gates. He made his way into his home, up the stairs, to the second-floor solar where they always conducted their business. It seemed oddly dark, the closer he got to the solar, but then he remembered – he had put up the thick drapes, as a favor to his guest, before he had left that morning. Unlike the rest of the house, which was receiving some of the pre-dawn gray light coming in from the windows, his solar remained dark.<p>

She was in there. Waiting.

He took a breath, smoothed his robes, and stepped into the room. The drapes had done their job well, and the room was dark enough that he could only make out the shapes of the furniture in the room – the furniture, and her. She was standing by the fireplace, studying the portrait mounted above it – done years ago, when he was a much younger man.

"I must say, the look suited you," she said, without even turning around. She knew he was there without even seeing him – something that still unnerved him, even after nearly five years of partnership with him.

"Milady," he greeted.

She didn't turn to respond to him, only reached up, taking a flint from the mantle, using it to light the lamp that was there, throwing a flickering orange glow into the room – more for his sake than for hers, Richelieu knew that. She could see him just fine without the light.

She was a beautiful woman, her face pale and untouched by time. Her dark brown hair had been left down, brushing over shoulders left exposed by the rather scandalous cut of the crimson dress she wore. Her eyes were a startlingly bright shade of green, seeming to pierce right through him. The corner of her lips twitched up into a smirk.

"Cardinal Armand Richelieu," she greeted. "You're out quite late."

"I could say the same for you," he said. "It's nearly dawn."

"I was waiting for you." She glanced at the clock on the mantle. "You're late."

"Terribly sorry." He bowed his head out of deference. "I was detained by His Majesty. He wanted an update after the Huntsmen searched the castle."

Her eyes narrowed at his words. "Ah, yes, he's brought the Huntsmen in, hasn't he? I do suppose if anyone's cut out for the job, it's them."

"Milady, I must ask…were you there tonight?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes on her.

"What business of yours is it if I was?" she asked with a sneer – and a flash of deadly white fangs. Richelieu held up his hands, an offering of peace.

"Merely curious. I would hate for your…personal history to cloud your sense."

"My sense is just fine, Armand," she told him. "But if you must know, yes, I was there. Seeing to an…old friend."

Exactly as he thought she was. He shook his head. "As I said, make sure your personal history isn't clouding your good sense. This is a matter for discretion."

"I haven't been found yet, have I?" she asked him.

"You haven't done anything yet," he pointed out.

"Patience," Milady told him with a little smile. "You can't rush art."

"I'm not rushing art," he said, feeling a bit irritated at her apparent amusement for his carefully-laid plans. "I'm rushing murder."

"I was starting to wonder when you'd call it what it was," she chuckled. "It's taken you long enough. So you're openly admitting that you're plotting murder now, Cardinal?"

"Only for the best interest of France," he said. "The Queen is barren, the King is a petulant child, and the empire is weak. The King needs an heir – and a wife better suited to give him one."

"And if his new wife cannot give him an heir?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Then you know the plan," he said, taking a seat at his desk. "If his new wife cannot give him a strong heir, then we will give France a new king."

"And I can only assume you mean yourself, Cardinal." She draped herself onto the couch, as casual as if she were in her own home, resting one pale arm along the back of the couch.

"Well, I don't want to seem overzealous," he remarked. "But I do suppose that was the intention, yes."

"And, of course, when the spoils are tabulated, I trust there will be something in it for me?" He winced at Milady looked up at him, her green eyes shrewd. "Especially considering that I'm doing most of the work here."

"Because you are the one who is best suited for the task."

She snorted, a very un-ladylike sound. "Because I am the one who is not afraid to get my hands dirty, you mean."

"But I am the one who faces the truths that the rest of the empire cannot stomach," Richelieu argued back. "This is a joint effort, Milady. And do not worry – I shall see to it that you are justly rewarded, whatever the outcome is."

He had hoped the answer would please her, but to his dismay, her eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean, Armand?"

"Should our plan not go as seamlessly as we hope for it to, there will be consequences," Richelieu told her, reaching up to touch the cross around his neck, thankful for whatever small measure of protection it provided from her. "I do not plan to be the only one who takes the fall."

"Ah. I see." Milady smiled, but the look in her eyes was cold and deadly. "I do suppose I make the perfect scapegoat for the ever so noble Cardinal Armand Richelieu."

"I never said you would be a scapegoat." Although truth to tell, he'd thought of that upon entering a partnership with the notorious Milady de Winter – what to do to survive the fallout of their plans going awry. He'd never admitted it, but throwing himself at the King's feet and crying "thrall" had seemed like a good response. Most likely to allow him to keep his station and to deal with getting rid of any potential threat to his claim over France.

"So we'll be sharing the rewards equally, good or bad?" Milady asked.

"Of course, Milady," he replied with a nod.

"Good. Because remember, Armand…it is not only our own fates at stake."

She raised two fingers, making a beckoning notion towards the door to the room. A young, dirty woman – one of the kitchen maids – stepped inside, leading a tiny girl by the hand. She was perhaps five at the oldest, with a cascade of thick brown hair and sparkling green eyes. Her dress was spotlessly white and spoke of her wealthy upbringing. Though she appeared frightened, as soon as her eyes landed on Milady, she broke into a gap-toothed smile…a smile that flashed a small pair of fangs.

"Mama!"

"My darling." Milady held out her arms, pulling the little girl into her lap when the girl rushed forward. She kissed the top of the little girl's head, smoothing her hair. Richelieu swallowed hard – Milady had mentioned the girl before, dropped hints of her over the years, but this was the first he'd ever seen of her. And the look in Milady's eyes suggested that she now had him exactly where she wanted him.

"After all, Armand…we wouldn't want anything to happen to our daughter, now, would we?"

* * *

><p>"Do you think he's alright?"<p>

"I don't know…something at the palace spooked him, definitely."

"You don't think there's actually a ghost there, do you?"

"Hard to say, I couldn't feel anything. You?"

"I felt…something, but…Athos, he must have gotten the full brunt of whatever it was. Must have been bad, I've never seen him like this."

As soon as the three of them had returned to the garrison, he had abandoned his horse and headed for his quarters. Despite the fact that he had closed the door to his quarters almost two hours ago, he could hear Porthos and Aramis talking through the wall – they were still outside of the door. They hadn't been talking at first – at first, they'd just stood there like sentries; every time he thought they had left, he'd hear their hearts beating, or one of them would cough or shift their weight. Aramis sneezed a few times while they were standing out there. After nearly an hour, Aramis had started gently knocking on the door, calling his name softly, trying to get his attention. But he had refused to answer. Eventually, Porthos had joined in, knocking so hard Athos thought he would take the door off its hinges and bellowing his name loud enough to wake the entire damn garrison. Now, they were talking amongst themselves. Talking about him.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. His hands were shaking and his stomach felt clenched like a fist, but it wasn't from hunger this time.

It was from fear.

It was the reason he was standing with his forehead to the wall, one hand on the wall to stabilize himself, the other clenched into a fist and pressed against his mouth. He had bitten down on his knuckles hard enough that they were bleeding, and his mouth was filled with the cold, coppery tang of his own blood. His breathing was shaky, and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears was almost deafening.

"He said something…"

Aramis's voice sounded so clear, it was almost as if they were standing next to each other. He glanced over to the door, fearing that they'd somehow managed to get in without him hearing them. But no, the door was closed as tightly as it had been earlier. He was still alone. Aramis and Porthos were still outside.

"What do you mean?"

"When we met at the rendezvous point, he said something," Aramis elaborated. "Something about the ghost having seen him."

"What do you think he meant by it?"

Aramis sighed – he could practically see his face while he was doing it. "I don't know. Hard to say, really."

Porthos made a noise of assent. "Think he knows what's going on at the palace?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't think he wouldn't tell us if he did, though."

"Maybe it's something he's seen before? I mean, let's face it, Aramis, how much do we know about him?"

"You do have a point." Aramis sighed again. "We don't know much, outside of what we've learned from knowing him these five years."

"Think he'll ever tell us?"

"Doubtful." There was the sound of boots on dry dirt, and then, a knock on his door again. "Athos? Can we please come talk to you?"

He sighed, turning so that his back was against the wall, running both hands through his disheveled hair. Some part of him felt bad, hiding so much from them. They were his best friends, after all – his only friends, really – and all they wanted to do was help.

But there was too much at stake. Especially if she wasn't as gone as he had hoped.

His stomach turned over at the thought, and for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick. He had been certain that chapter of his life was thoroughly closed the moment he had left Chateau de la Fére, the moment he had left the two people he had loved most in his life lying dead on the floor. But now? Now that she might have been back?

His hands were shaking again, worse than before. The fear was mixing with something else, something hot and awful in the pit of his stomach: Anger. His life had been completely changed that night – he had been made into something else that night, something awful, something he hated to be. And it was all because of her.

The bottle that Treville had given him early was within reach, and empty now. Acting solely on impulse, he grabbed the bottle and threw it with a guttural screech that he didn't even realize was coming from him. The bottle shattered against the far wall of the room, leaving a dull red smear and a shower of broken glass in its wake.

Outside of his quarters, he heard Aramis sigh. "He's drinking again. He's not going to answer us."

"We should stick around," Porthos said. "In case he needs our help."

"I don't think he's going to let us in." There was a thud, like Aramis had plopped down outside of the door. "He'll drink himself to oblivion. Probably pass out. We can go in and check on him then."

Athos sunk down onto his bed, barely holding back a weak chuckle at Aramis's words.

_If only drinking was still a viable option… _


	4. The Gascon Problem

_**A/N:** Merry Christmas! Thank you to everyone who reads and follows the story!_

* * *

><p><strong>Four<strong>

_The Gascon Problem_

"Damn it to hell, Porthos!"

Athos looked up, momentarily distracted from his practice sword bout with a younger Huntsman. Across the yard, at a table near the mess hall, a young man with a tangled mop of dishwater-blond hair jumped up from the table, slamming his hands down on the rough wood top. Porthos's laughter echoed across the courtyard. Athos could only imagine what the younger Huntsman was losing his head over.

Athos's sparring partner pushed forward, taking advantage of his momentary distraction. Fortunately for Athos, the boy was still largely untrained with the sword – he told far too easily in his movements. He jabbed forward hard; Athos sidestepped him, parrying the lad's blade with just a flick of his wrist. His partner tried to feint left, but his feet were pointing the wrong way for him to actually plan on an attack to the left. It was an easy finish to the fight: He pressed forward, caught his partner off-guard, and it ended with his partner on the ground and the tip of Athos's blade to his throat.

"You fight with great enthusiasm," Athos told him. "But your movements are too telling."

The boy nods, moving to thank Athos, but he was already gone, across the courtyard to the table where the younger Huntsman was glaring Porthos down and Porthos was giving the kid a spectacular shit-eating grin.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Oh, Cavey here is just a sore loser," Porthos said, shaking his head.

"Your friend here has no personal integrity," Cavey said, cheeks burning bright red. "He's a cheat at cards."

"He's not a cheat!" Aramis defended from down the table, getting to his feet. "He can't help it that you can't play Kings for shit!"

"Accusing a fellow Huntsman of cheating is quite serious, you know that, right?" Athos asked, looking Cavey over slowly, his tone calm despite the fact that Cavey's accusation made him bristle with anger.

"Especially accusing Porthos of cheating," Aramis grumbled under his breath.

Porthos stood, and to Athos's secret delight, Cavey blanched at the sight of Porthos standing, tall and muscled, impressive in his dark doublet and cloak that all the Huntsmen wore. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, right near both his pistol and his sword.

"So, you think I'm cheating," Porthos declared. "And I think you're slandering my good name. What say we settle this by a duel, like gentlemen?"

"Dueling is illegal…" Cavey murmured, looking a little green around the gills.

"Or I could just take the matter to Captain Treville," Athos remarked, watching the younger hunter go ever paler. "I'm sure he'd be interested to hear of this discord…"

"You know, I…I believe I was mistaken," Cavey said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I thought Porthos had the king up his sleeve, but…I believe I was mistaken."

"So are we just going to…forget about this unfortunate encounter?" Aramis asked, raising an eyebrow in that way that suggested Cavey would let the issue die or he might find himself on the receiving end of a nasty surprise from Aramis.

To his benefit, Cavey nodded. "O-Of course!"

"Good lad." Porthos clapped him on the shoulder, nearly making the boy collapse as he left the table. Aramis stood up, joining his two companions. "Well, gents, I think that I'll go see what Serge has cooked up tonight, I'm feeling a bit puckish…"

The trio walked away, Athos finding himself in the middle of his two friends. He glanced to Aramis, who was grinning ear to ear.

"You have a cruel streak in you, you know that, right?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"That poor boy is going to have nightmares about what you might have done if he hadn't complied."

"Oh, he's young and hot-headed," Aramis said, shaking his head. "A little fear will do him some good."

"Now, as for you," Athos said, turning his attention to Porthos, whose grin faded into something resembling a guilty smile. "Did you cheat?"

"What? I would never," Porthos said, shaking his head.

"Except for that time I caught you cheating at Kings with Dujon from the Red Guard," Athos said, raising an eyebrow. "You really _did_ have the king up your sleeve."

"I swear, Athos, I didn't cheat this time," Porthos said. "I've been working on it."

"He simply can't help himself," Aramis said, shaking his head. "He's a shark at cards."

Athos opened his mouth to respond, but stopped. Distantly, he could hear something – the hooves of a horse against the road leading up to the garrison. He frowned – there were some Huntsmen out on patrols that evening, but the sun had only gone down three hours ago or so. Unless it had been an exceptionally quick mission, no one should have been back that early.

"Athos?"

He turned away, heading back the way they had come, towards the front gates. The closer he got, the better he could hear; only one horse was approaching. It was either the smallest ambush ever, or someone needed their assistance.

"Open the gate!" came a woman's cry from the outside. Athos recognized that voice – and was alarmed by the panic in it.

"Open the gate!"

* * *

><p>"Haven't seen you around before."<p>

The sun had gone down nearly an hour earlier, but it had taken the better part of the hour following it for young Charles d'Artagnan to decide that stopping for the night would be prudent. It was a decision that had not come with some level of frustration, however – he had been riding for the better part of three weeks from Gascony, and had finally made it to Paris. He wanted to complete his task immediately, to return home – hopefully, with a regiment of the King's Huntsmen at his back. However, he knew the King would not start seeing petitioners at all until morning.

He had been at a back table by himself, trying not to sulk too much, when she had joined him. She was a beautiful woman – probably a few years his senior but with an ageless sort of look to her, and green eyes that captivated him. She had offered him a charming, closed-mouth smile, before asking if she might join him, as she couldn't find a seat elsewhere, and, well, he looked so lonely…

"I'm not from Paris," he answered. "I'm from Lupiac, in Gascony."

"Gascony?" She looked surprised. "You've come a long way."

"I'm here to petition the King," he announced, feeling a bit more open to conversation after his third cup of wine – as it would happen, his companion was as generous as she was beautiful. "We have a werewolf problem."

"Werewolves? How dreadful!" His companion pressed a few fingers to her lips, astonished. "What are you going to do?"

"Petition the King for help from his Huntsmen," d'Artagnan answered, draining his wine glass, which was refilled almost instantly. "Hopefully, he'll be willing to spare a few of them long enough to keep these beasts from destroying the Gascon farms. Including my family's."

"Do you have a place to stay, while you're here?" she asked, offering him another indulgent smile.

"Oh, I was probably going to stay here…" he said, shrugging and looking around at the inn. It was small, and a little grungy, but it was a roof over his head and a bowl of somewhat-edible food.

"Oh, no, no, that won't do," his companion said, shaking her head. "No, my dear boy. You can stay with me for the evening."

"I couldn't possibly," he said, shaking his head, trying not to let the ideas now running through his head show on his face – she'd be shocked if he knew the kind of things he was thinking of. The smile on her face, however, showed that she had some wicked intentions of her own.

"I insist."

And so, ten minutes and little arguing later, she was dragging him out the door and he was following, his brain shutting down a bit as a certain other body part commenced thinking for him. Feeling a bit feisty, his companion broke away, darting off down an alley with a giggle. The wine having long since gone to his head, d'Artagnan gave chase, chuckling; he got lost a time or two, but then he would see a flash of his lady's crimson skirts, or hear her giggle, and he'd be off in the right direction again. He didn't even realize he was chasing her through the darkest alleys of the city until he had lost her completely.

"My lady?" he called, turning in a tight circle, trying to spot her. "My lady?"

Something slammed into him from behind, sending him stumbling into the side of a building. He just barely avoided falling by grabbing the siding, turning to face who – or what – had accosted him.

He wished he hadn't.

He was face-to-face – or, rather, face-to-chest – with a massive, snarling, seething ball of fur and teeth and claws. The very kind of beast that had been terrorizing Gascony for weeks.

"W-Werewolf!"

He tried to run, to get back to a main road – or at least a more populated one- but the werewolf was faster, sinking its claws into his side. He yelled in pain, doubling over; the werewolf then flung him aside like an old toy. Apparently, going for the kill was not the beast's immediate intent. It wanted to play first.

He tried to get back up despite the pain in his side, reaching for his sword. But no sooner has he drawn it than the werewolf knocks it from his hands, before clawing him from his shoulder, across his collarbones and upper chest. The claws make ribbons of both his shirt and flesh alike, and the pain draws a scream from his lips. To add insult to injury, the werewolf kicked him in the chest. Ribs bruised under the pressure, and all the breath left d'Artagnan in a whoosh. The fight had left him for the moment, and all he could do was whimper pathetically.

The beast leaned over him, as if it intends to finish what it started. Weakly, d'Artagnan reached for his pistol, his last hope of saving himself. The werewolf stomped on his hand, pinning it to the ground. A bone in his wrist broke, and the sickening white-hot pain was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

If Death was coming for him, his only hope was that it would be quick.

As quickly as the werewolf had come, however, he was gone, leaving behind his mangy scent and a heavily bleeding and confused d'Artagnan.

A moment later, as the Gascon boy was losing consciousness, someone else appeared – a woman, dressed in the modest clothing of a merchant's wife, with the face of an angel. She hurried over, dropping to her knees next to d'Artagnan.

"Oh, God…oh, God, no…" She shook him hard. "Please! Please don't die, stay with me…"

Blackness was creeping in to the edges of his vision. The woman grabbed him and hauled him up, though it took a few tries and left him wheezing and in tears from the pain it sent through his battered body.

She was half-leading, half-dragging him through the alleys, back towards the streets. Blackness. When he came back around, she was talking frantically to a merchant, who finally gave in and helped haul d'Artagnan into his horse-drawn cart. He was fading, fast. The woman smoothed his hair from his face, and before he lost consciousness completely, he heard her murmur one last thing.

"Please…don't let it have been Jacques…"

* * *

><p>Athos could smell the blood before the gates were open all the way.<p>

He hung back slightly, silently thankful it was dark. That it was harder to see the visceral reaction the smell of the blood brought out in him – especially since he was behind Aramis and Porthos.

The gates creaked open all the way, and in rode Constance Bonacieux. She was well-known among the garrison – many of them had been patched up by her at least once in some capacity, including Porthos and Aramis. Despite how late it was, she was still wearing her day dress, which was now smeared with blood and muck. The horse she rode wasn't hers – the Bonacieuxs had sold their horse a few months ago as Constance's husband had tried to expand his cloth business a little more. Attached to the horse's harness was a cart, and in the cart…oh, _God_. The boy couldn't have been any more than eighteen or nineteen, tanned and lean from a lifetime of hard outdoor work. Though his clothes were bloodied and in tatters, Athos could tell they were simple, the clothes of a farm boy. And the blood…

"_Dios Mio_," Aramis breathed, rushing forward as Constance stopped the horse. "What happened to him?"

Athos only needed to take a look at the boy's injuries – and a good smell of him – to piece together what had happened to the poor boy. "Werewolf."

"I found him in an alley, not too far from my home," Constance said, climbing into the cart alongside Aramis to help him move the boy. "I didn't get a very clear look at what attacked him, but it was definitely a werewolf, I could tell."

"Did he give you his name?" Aramis looked to Porthos and Athos with wide eyes, already having flipped from "soldier" to "medic". "Help me move him!"

Porthos hurried over to help. Athos lingered back, eyes closed, trying not to breathe in too deeply. His hands were already shaking from the smell of the blood…

"Athos!"

There was no ignoring Aramis. Eyes snapping open, he hurried over to help them lift the battered, bloodied boy from the cart. The closer he got, the more overwhelming was the smell of blood; his hands were shaking, and his gums ached in his mouth. Aramis cast him a look as he helped lift the boy from the cart

"Are you all right?" Aramis asked.

"Fine," he grunted, not looking directly at his friend – he knew he'd be as good as dead if he did.

The answer did not satisfy Aramis, but fortunately, the boy came back around and ensnared his attention as they carried him across the garrison's courtyard, shooing the gathering crowd out of their way as they moved. The boy glanced up at them with glassy brown eyes, then buckled violently, as though trying to escape their hold – which only made carrying him harder.

"Easy, easy," Aramis cooed, trying to soothe him. "We're not going to hurt you. Easy. We want to help."

They got him into the tiny room that served as an infirmary, laying him on one of the narrow beds. He tried to get back up, but Porthos held him down, making him cry out in a pitiful mixture of fear and pain. Constance hurried out, saying something about getting fresh water to clean his wounds with. The air stank of sweat and blood, underplayed with the peculiar tang of werewolf pheromones, though Athos was sure he was probably the only one who could smell them, at least clearly.

Aramis knelt next to the boy, taking advantage of the fact that he was currently conscious. "Do you know where you are?"

"Paris…" the boy groaned.

"Yes. Yes, good," Aramis said. "You're at the Huntsmen's garrison."

"H-Huntsmen…werewolves…" He tried to sit up, and succeeded in aggravating one of his wounds into bleeding afresh again. Athos's entire body shuddered as the scent of fresh blood filled the air, and he brought a hand to his mouth, biting down on his index finger to stifle the groan that almost escaped him. Aramis gently coaxed him back to the bed, grabbing a piece of linen that Porthos offered him and pressing it to the lad's wound.

"Shh. Shh, we'll get to that later," Aramis told him. Constance hurried back in with a bucket of water, immediately started to soak linen strips in it to help Aramis. "Can you tell me your name?"

"D'Artagnan…"

"D'Artagnan. Good." He set to work on the scratches across d'Artagnan's chest, gently dabbing away the blood. Constance, meanwhile, took his swollen wrist in her hands, only to gasp.

"Aramis…"

"What is it?" Aramis looked, finding what had surprised Constance – four gaping punctures in d'Artagnan's side. He swore in Spanish, grabbing for a knife that Porthos supplied him and using it to slice open the bloodied shirt that clung to the boy's skin. "He's been bitten…"

"No."

It was the first thing Athos had said since they arrived in the infirmary, but it got everyone's attention immediately. Aramis stood, eyeing him curiously; Constance stayed kneeling next to d'Artagnan, dabbing at his brow with a damp washcloth to soothe his fevered skin. Porthos, who had been doing his best to be close enough to be helpful without being in the way, appeared thoroughly confused.

"No?" Aramis asked.

"He hasn't been bitten," Athos elaborated – though he didn't lower his hand from in front of his mouth and hoped Aramis couldn't see the bleeding marks on his finger from where he'd bitten down on it.

Aramis and Constance gave him doubtful looks. He stepped forward, getting as close to d'Artagnan as he dared. Despite the musk of werewolf pheromones, the smell of the boy's blood was clean and untainted. He cleared his throat, then, in a moment of daring, knelt in front of d'Artagnan, pointing to the wound.

"The marking isn't consistent to a werewolf bite," he explained, determinedly not meeting Aramis's gaze and keeping his attention on the wound. "Four punctures in a row? Unless this is a werewolf with the strangest dental arrangement I've even seen, that's no bite. It's far too clean, too, werewolves tear into the flesh when they bite, usually leave a larger wound – more blood flow to the wound, which means – "

"A faster venom absorption rate," Aramis concluded, nodding.

"Not to mention his wound's still bleeding," Constance said, nudging Athos aside to look at the punctures. She glanced up at him, and he looked away quickly – hopefully, it was quickly enough. She studied the wounds, running her fingers along them, which made d'Artagnan cry out in pain. After a moment, she looked back up. "The wounds are claw punctures, I think. If he'd been bitten, he wouldn't still be bleeding."

"So we've got puncture to the sides, slashes to the chest…looks like a broken wrist and possible bruising, maybe internal injury and bleeding," Aramis concluded with a sigh and a look that could be described as grim. He rinsed his hands in a basin with some of the water Constance had brought in, drying them on a towel.

"Will he survive?" Porthos asked.

"It's touch and go," Aramis said. "But he's young, and strong…if Constance and I can get the bleeding stopped quickly and his wounds tended to, then he should make a full recovery."

Athos nodded, standing up, still avoiding everyone's gaze, lips pressed together as he headed for the door. His hands were still shaking slightly.

"Where are you going?" Aramis asked.

"Reporting the incident to Treville," he said, throwing open the door, thankful that, despite the rather dramatic entrance, there was no crowd. "Provided I haven't been beaten to it."

Before anyone could say anything else, he swept out the door, pulling it closed behind him. He headed in the direction of Treville's office, hoping the cold evening air would clear his head.

* * *

><p>By the time Athos came back, d'Artagnan had been patched up and was sleeping, his long, lanky frame almost too big for the tiny bed that he lay on. Constance was perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing her fingers through his long, sweat-tangled black hair, her expression concerned, even a tiny bit sad. Aramis was sitting nearby, seemingly dozing, but when Athos came in, his head snapped back up, awake.<p>

"Where were you?" he asked.

Athos shrugged. "Reported the attack to Treville. He sent me to try to find the scene."

"Any luck?"

He shook his head. He'd rode the streets of Paris, sticking to the tavern district, trying to sniff out the blood and the werewolf pheromones, but it had been too long, the scent of the werewolf had faded too much, and there was too much blood in the air – from what, God only knew. Aramis sighed.

"Well, I suppose it was worth a shot."

"Where's Porthos?" Athos asked, realizing the big man was missing.

"Went to try to go beg some food off of Serge. For d'Artagnan, when he awakes."

Athos looked to the slumbering patient. "How is he?"

"His condition is stable," Aramis said, looking to the boy as well. "He'll need a few days to get back on his feet. The claw marks across his chest are shallow, but the punctures in his side are an inch or so deep. Not to mention the broken wrist, and I found some signs of internal injury, he's got bruising on his chest." He shook his head. "The poor boy's been through Hell. But I think he'll heal well."

"Good," Athos said.

Aramis approached him, leaning in to speak after making sure Constance was occupied with d'Artagnan. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course. Everything's fine." Athos gave him a look. "Why wouldn't everything be fine?"

"Earlier, you seemed…off. Not like yourself."

"Things are fine," Athos said, hoping Aramis would read the note of finality in his voice and not pressure him anymore. "Don't worry."

Aramis's face fell slightly, and Athos couldn't help but feel a little bad. Aramis only wanted to help him, and it seemed an unkindness to push him away. But at the same time, letting Aramis dig too deep would ultimately prove fatal, Athos knew that. However, his friend quickly adopted a neutral expression again, nodding.

"Alright. If you're sure."

"I am."

Fortunately, Porthos came back in then, with a food-laden tray for d'Artagnan, and Athos used the moment to slip out, heading, again, for Treville's office, hands clenched tightly to stop them from shaking – again.

There had been too much temptation shoved into his face. He needed something to kill the hunger that had started gnawing at him the moment he'd smelled d'Artagnan's blood. And he needed it _now_, before someone got hurt.


	5. Death Becomes Her

_**A/N:** Happy 2015, ! Enjoy the new chapter, and thanks to everyone who reads and follows the story! Remember, reviews are always appreciated and will be answered!_

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><p><strong>Five<strong>

_Death Becomes Her_

"I need to see the King!"

Aramis sighed. D'Artagnan had been singing that same tune for the past four days, despite the fact that his injuries were still just barely healing. As it was, he'd spent the first two days after he'd been brought to the garrison in and out of consciousness, feverish and moaning and worrying Aramis into not sleeping. Three days into his recovery, the fever had broken, and d'Artagnan was spending longer periods of time conscious – but whenever he was conscious, it was always the same thing.

"I've told you, you're in no shape to see the King," Aramis told him, shaking his head and trying to coax the young farm boy back against the pillows. "You haven't even mastered sitting up yet."

"I have! Watch." He tried to force himself up into a sitting position, but after a moment's struggling, he yowled, clutching his side and sinking back onto the mattress with a pitiful groan. Aramis shook his head, pressing his lips together to hide both a smirk and an 'I told you so.'

"First, let's work on sitting up," Aramis said. "On your own. And perhaps feeding yourself, too."

"I am kind of hungry," d'Artagnan confessed.

"I'm sure you are," Aramis said. "The only thing I could get you to swallow down in the midst of your fever was water and a little bit of willow tea. Porthos should be coming in with some food soon."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the door creaked open. Aramis rounded on the door, to greet his companion and thank him for his promptness in bringing back food, only to find it wasn't Porthos coming in – it was Athos, freshly washed and dressed, his hat held in front of him. He glanced to d'Artagnan, who was slumped against his pillows, half-sitting, and then looked to Aramis.

"How is he?"

"As well as anyone who got attacked by a werewolf can be," Aramis said. "His fever broke sometime yesterday, so things are looking up."

"You know, I am sitting right here. There's no need to talk about me like I'm not here," d'Artagnan protested from the bed. Athos looked back to him, then stepped up next to the bed, settling into the chair that Aramis had drawn up two nights ago, so he could sit and watch and fret and make sure his patient didn't stop breathing in the middle of the night.

"Why have you come to Paris?" he asked.

"I've told you, to speak with the King."

"A farmer's boy?" Athos raised an eyebrow. "What do you have to say that would be of interest to the king?"

"Athos!" Aramis hissed, frowning – but if d'Artagnan was meant to be insulted by what Athos had said, he gave no sign of being insulted. Instead, with a grunt of exertion that turned into a moan of pain, he managed to push himself up into a sitting position, turning to look at Athos. He tilted his head back to rest against the headboard, a gesture of exhaustion, but his eyes were bright and alert as he looked at the two Huntsmen.

"There are werewolves in Gascony," he said. "They're terrorizing the farmers. They're killing the livestock, and…" He swallowed hard. "A farmer's little girl, she was out playing with the sheep and a werewolf tore her to pieces. She was only six. They've gotten a taste for human blood now, and what's to stop them from openly attacking farms because they think it's fun? Well?"

"You've come to petition the King for help?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan nodded. "For the help of the Huntsmen. My father…he's getting older. He insisted he could make the journey, but I told him I'd ride in his place. My father is well thought of in Lupiac. He figured I could be trusted." He pressed his lips together for a second, squeezing his eyes closed. It was then that both Athos and Aramis could see how truly young he looked – no older than twenty. His next words were little more than a croak.

"I failed…"

"No, you haven't failed," Aramis said, shaking his head. "You've made it to the Huntsmen. I'd call that fairly successful, minus the, ah…"

"We can take your case to Treville," Athos offered quietly. "He may be able to dispatch a troop to Gascony to see to the problem."

"Y-You think so?" d'Artagnan asked, looking up at the two of them with wide eyes, full of a childish sort of hope that almost broke both of their hearts.

"Treville would want the threat seen to as soon as possible," Athos said with a shrug. "Likely, he'll dispatch a troop."

"Well, if you can bring this to his attention?" Aramis asked. "Porthos should be back with food for the lad any minute now. Don't know what's taken him so long; I'd swear he's gone all the way back to Gascony to bring the boy some authentic cuisine."

"On it." Athos turned to the door, intent on heading to Treville's office. Much to his surprise – and Aramis's as well – the door opened to reveal Treville, and a somewhat taken-aback Porthos behind him. The captain's expression was stern, and in his hands, he held a letter.

"Captain," Athos said, straightening up. "I was just about to come find you."

"Whatever it is, it'll have to wait," Treville said, looking between his two men and the injured Gascon boy, who scowled.

"Try telling that to the farmers who lost their sheep!" d'Artagnan growled, trying to force himself up from the bed. "Or the family whose daughter was torn to pieces! Is that what I should go back and tell them as they bury their little girl? That the great Captain Treville said _it can wait?_"

Athos and Aramis were on him immediately, holding him back down to the bed. He struggled with a surprising amount of ferocity for someone who had sustained the injuries he had. Athos leaned in to hiss in his ear.

"I understand that you're upset," he began, "but for mercy's sake, _shut up_."

D'Artagnan gave him a dirty look, but, to his credit, he stopped struggling and slumped back down on his bed, glaring at Treville. Treville returned the glare with a rather cold look, before turning to face Athos and Aramis. Porthos, who had followed the captain in, set the tray of food down on a nearby table and came up behind them.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I've just received a letter from the Cardinal," Treville said. "There's been a murder at the palace."

Though a crowd had gathered around the body of the dead girl by the time Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and Treville had arrived at the Palais de Louvre, they had, mercifully, left the body alone.

No one could blame them for not wanting to touch the body, though – or, rather, what was left of it. The corner of the palace in which her life had ended was a bloody nightmare, in every sense of the word. Louis stood as far away as he could without being in another room, face pale and his black hair a tousled mop. If he was offended by his Huntsmen seeing him in his nightshirt and dressing-gown, though, he gave no indication of it. Anne stood nearby, dressed similarly; she looked pale and shaken, but was talking soothingly to her husband. As soon as Treville swept in, flanked by the trio of Huntsmen, Louis abandoned his wife and hurried over, Richelieu rushing behind him with a sweep of his robes.

"Thank God you're here," he said.

"Your Majesty," Treville said, sweeping a bow to the king; Athos, Porthos, and Aramis followed suit. "What's happened?"

"Can't you tell? The girl has been ripped apart!" Louis exclaimed, gesturing to the scene with a shaking hand.

Treville looked to Porthos and Aramis, jerking his head towards the body, and they hurried to examine it. Athos let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, casting Treville an appreciative look. The captain responded with a nod, facing the king again.

"Do we know the identity of the girl?"

"Her name was Caroline," Anne stepped forward, resting a hand on her husband's arm. "She was one of my ladies-in-waiting."

"Do you happen to know what she was doing up this late?" Athos asked, inclining his head politely to the Queen.

"I presume she was on her way back to her quarters," Anne responded, shaking her head. "I dismissed my ladies a few hours ago. We didn't realize anything was amiss until we heard the screaming."

"I was assured, by your men, that there was nothing in the left wing of the palace, Treville," Louis said sharply, drawing himself to his full height. "It would appear they were wrong."

"My men are rarely wrong," Treville said carefully.

"Then why is there a dead serving girl in the palace?" Louis took a step towards Treville, who stepped back slightly. Anne stepped forward with her husband, laying a hand on his arm again.

"Sire," she said calmly. "There's no need to get angry with Treville. I'm sure his Huntsmen searched the palace thoroughly."

"Well?" Suddenly, Louis's attention – as well as the attention of Anne and Richelieu as well – was on Athos.

"Our results were…inconclusive," he responded slowly, choosing his words carefully. "There is something in the palace; we initially believed it to be a spirit. However, we couldn't be sure."

"Did you see anything?" Anne asked.

Athos froze. He hadn't seen anything that night…but he couldn't say for certain that there hadn't been anything there. That voice, calling his name, his _true _name – someone was definitely there the other night.

Fortunately, he was saved by Aramis and Porthos returning; the former was wiping his hands on a handkerchief, a grave look on his face. Everyone turned their attention to the two men.

"Well, it's hard to determine what exactly was the cause of death," Aramis said with a sigh. "The damage to the girl is extensive and thorough."

"What did it, at least?" Richelieu asked.

"Werewolf, we think," Porthos said. "Judgin' by the brutality of the attack."

"But why?" Louis asked.

"Honestly? We don't know." Aramis shrugged, shaking his head. "It could be that this is meant to be a warning to Your Majesties. It could be a case of mistaken identity. Or…well, it could be just a random kill."

"Here? A random kill at the palace?" Athos shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

"You expect werewolves to make sense?" Porthos said, making a face and shaking his head.

"Was there anything of note at the scene?" Treville asked. "Any clues to the identity of the murderer?"

"Not much," Aramis said, shaking his head. "We combed the scene for any hair, fur, anything...nothing of the sort."

"We did find this, though." Porthos extended his hand, opening his fingers. In the palm of his hand was a blood-splattered sprig of forget-me-not.

Athos's heart dropped, stomach churning sickeningly. Forget-me-not…it had grown wild in the meadows of his hometown, on his own estate. She had loved them, filled the house with them. Instinctively, his hand went to the locket around his neck, running a thumb over the face of the locket, knowing there was a pressed forget-me-not within. A memento of a perfect day. A reminder of one of the last perfect days of his life.

Was it just a coincidence? But he hadn't seen any of that damned flower since he'd come to Paris; the appearance of it after so many years couldn't just be mere coincidence. _She can't be here_, he thought. _It's impossible. _

But who else could it be?

"Athos?"

He jumped. Aramis was only a few inches away, eyes concerned. Porthos was showing Treville and Richelieu the particulars of the crime scene, while Louis and Anne stood several feet away, talking in hushed tones.

"Is everything alright? You look like you've seen a ghost…again," he said.

"I'm fine," Athos replied, shaking his head.

"You're lying. What's going on?"

"It's nothing."

"Is there something you're not telling us?" Aramis came in closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. Athos would have pulled away, if not for the look in Aramis's eyes. "Something's happening, here, isn't it? At the palace?"

"Well, of course," he said. "We've got a dead serving girl on our hands. Of course something's going on."

"I don't mean like that," Aramis said. "This palace is doing something to you, isn't it? When Porthos and I found you the other night, you were white as a sheet. You saw something while you were patrolling, didn't you? You said something about…the ghost had seen you?"

Athos looked away. Aramis gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Look, if there's something going on that we can help with, tell us. Please? Especially if this is getting people killed. If this is getting people killed, this is something we all need to know about. Alright?"

"Alright," Athos said, nodding once. Aramis, satisfied with his response, drew back, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good. Let's go see what they're up to over there," Aramis said, turning on his heel and heading for the crime scene again. Athos followed, slowly, the smell of the blood overwhelming. He had to stop ten feet away from the girl and take several deep breaths. His gums were aching. His hands started shaking, and he tried to get himself back under control. He'd already taken care of the hunger that evening, and the fact that it was rearing its head again made him feel sick with shame and disgust. Aramis stopped, turning to look at him in confusion again.

"Athos?"

"And can we please do something about the body?" Louis called.

Athos almost smiled from relief.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you letting me go, is there?"

Constance raised an eyebrow at d'Artagnan, who was offering her a winsome sort of grin. At her disapproving look, the grin faded, and he settled back into the bed.

"Thought I'd ask."

"You can barely sit up," Constance said firmly, bringing the bowl of stew that Porthos had brought before he'd left to the bed and settling in next to d'Artagnan. "You're in no shape to go petition the king. Besides, he's not going anywhere."

"That's not what I'm worried about." He took the bowl and tried to worm his way into an upright position, but when that ended with him crying out in pain and nearly spilling the bowl all over himself, his bed, and Constance, she reached out, taking the bowl from him.

"Here, let me hold that while you get settled," she said. "What are you worried about, then?"

"My family," he said with a sigh. "My farm. My father's getting older, my mother's gone, and I'm all he has left. If I can't get someone out there to help defend the farm…" He shrugged, his eyes downcast. "It's not much. But it's all I've ever known. It's what's kept the d'Artagnan family going for generations. I don't want to be the idiot that loses it because he couldn't do one simple task."

"Oh, hush," Constance said, firmly though not unkindly. "You're hardly an idiot, I'm sure. And you're not going to lose that farm. You need to focus on getting better first before you go to the King. Besides, you've already found the Huntsmen. Who's to say you still need to see the King after all?"

D'Artagnan didn't say anything, only reached out and took the bowl, eyes still downcast. Constance sighed, watching him as he clumsily attempted to feed himself while also trying to move his broken wrist as little as possible.

"Please be careful," she cautioned. "I don't want you to do anything to disturb that bone while it's setting. Can I at least hold the bowl?"

Though he pouted slightly, he did grudgingly hand her the bowl. She held it firmly while he fed himself; clearly, he was not as skilled at tasks with his left hand as he was with his right. After a few bites of stew, he swallowed, looking up at her.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked.

"You were injured," she said, shrugging. "I knew if I brought you here, Aramis would be able to help me clean you up and assess your injuries. He's got more experience than I have when it comes to werewolf attacks."

"Yes, but…why?" he asked. "Why not just leave me in the alley to die?"

He almost regretted asking, from the look on her face. She looked horribly guilty – like she felt responsible for his attack. But that was impossible; she wasn't a werewolf. Couldn't be a werewolf.

Could she?

That look vanished, under a guise of careful concern. She placed a hand on d'Artagnan's uninjured hand, offering him a kind but sad smile.

"Because it wouldn't be right," she said. "Because I'd like to think that, if I had been attacked, someone would come to help me."

There was something about her eyes, something so compelling and yet, so very sad. Almost hopeless…what had put that look into her eyes? Had someone hurt her? D'Artagnan swallowed hard, biting back a hot tide of anger that had risen up at the idea of someone hurting her. It seemed silly – he barely knew her. But she was a good person, he knew that much. And she was beautiful. Someone as beautiful and as good as her didn't deserve to be hurt.

"I would," he said.

"Well, first, let's work on getting you back on your feet," she said with a small laugh, shaking her head. "And then, perhaps you might find the gentlemen here will be willing to train you in being a good knight in shining armor."

"Wait…train me? As in…to be a Huntsmen?" he asked.

"Well, why not?"

"Oh, no, no, I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I couldn't possibly, I've got my farm to go back…I just came to Paris to…to petition the King for help from the Huntsmen…" He groaned, shaking his head. "The King. I need to see the King, soon."

"I believe Athos has already taken your case to Captain Treville," Constance said, standing up, bustling with the bowl of water and Aramis's medical supplies. "He'll devise something, I'm sure. So you can get back to your farm."

He offered her a small smile. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

"It's madame." There was a hint of steel in her tone and her expression, but it softened when she looked at him – he didn't realize he had physically reacted to her remark, but apparently, he had. "Madame Bonacieux. But…"

"But?"

"But you can call me Constance."


	6. Diversions

_**A/N:** Thank you so much for everyone who continues to read, comment, and like/follow the story! Sorry for the delay - I started my student teaching internship and I've spent the past few weeks mostly in survival mode. Now that I've settled in a bit, I'll hopefully be able to update a little more frequently._

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><p><strong>Six<strong>

_Diversions_

Sundown found Athos strapping on the last of his gear, prepared for another night of patrolling the palace. A week and a half had passed since one of Queen Anne's servants had been found viciously murdered in the hallway, and while there had been no further deaths, there was a palpable air of tension and fear hanging over the Louvre. And so, every night since then, he had ridden to the palace with Porthos and Aramis, patrolled all over, searched for any sign of whatever monster had torn the girl, Caroline Joubert, to pieces.

He couldn't help but feel uneasy as he strapped his belt around his waist. Whatever it was he kept feeling at the palace, that thing he had encountered the first night there, it was still there. It hadn't come to him since that first patrol, but he could feel it in the palace. Remembered the cold chill down his back as it had whispered his name to him – _Olivier, Olivier_. With a muttered curse, he grabbed his hat and all but yanked it onto his head, throwing open the door and striding towards the yard. He hadn't made it any more than a half-dozen steps when someone hurried up next to him.

"Athos!"

"D'Artagnan, shouldn't you be in bed?"

The boy had recovered well enough from his injuries; his right wrist was still healing, but the scratches had closed up with no infection and he had been spending more and more time out of the tiny bed he occupied in the infirmary. Seeing as Athos's room was well across the courtyard from the infirmary, however, he was surprised to see the Gascon boy around.

"I came to find you," he said. "How does anyone around here tell who lives where? I can't tell the bloody rooms apart…"

"Trade secret." Athos stopped, furrowing his brow. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Aramis sent me to find you," d'Artagnan answered. "Treville wants to see you. Now."

_Now_ never meant anything good, not in Treville's world. And so, Athos hustled across the yard and up the stairs to Treville's quarters, nearly running headlong into Aramis as he did. Heavy footsteps on the steps behind him meant that Porthos was coming, too. Aramis was in the middle of drawing his gloves on, and his customary array of belts and baldrics was missing – he must have been summoned in the middle of getting geared up for their nightly patrol at the palace.

"What do you think it is?" Athos asked, not wasting time with pleasantries.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "What do I think it is? Or what am I _afraid_ that it is?"

"Another dead servant, y'think?" Porthos asked, taking the steps between himself and his companions two at a time.

"Why else would Treville insist on seeing us now, when we're about to go to the palace to patrol?" Athos asked, leading the way to the captain's office. He rapped on the door, receiving a gruff invitation to enter from the other side.

The captain was sitting at his desk, looking over a missive whose wax seal looked like it had just barely had time to dry before it had been broken. He looked up as the three men entered, hats all held respectively in front of them instead of worn on their heads.

"Captain," Athos greeted, ever the spokesperson for the group.

"Good, you got my message." He sighed, putting the letter down. "You're not going to the palace tonight."

"What do you mean, we're not going to the palace tonight?" Aramis asked, frowning.

"The King an' Queen are expecting us there for patrol," Porthos added.

"I know." Treville shook his head. "I just got word in from Cardinal Richelieu. He says that one of the groundskeepers reported seeing a large animal of some kind run off the grounds just before sunset this evening. Thinks it might be whatever killed the girl at the palace. He wants me to send his three best Huntsmen, and, well…that'd be the three of you."

"Not that we're not flattered by the description," Athos remarked, "but who's going to be patrolling the palace if we're chasing down some werewolf?"

"I will," Treville answered. "Along with a regiment of Huntsmen. The Cardinal is blessing the palace tonight – he thinks that he can get rid of whatever foul creature is holding up there by going through and blessing the place. I will be accompanying him, as well as a handful of other Huntsmen."

He gives Athos a look – it's so quick that the others don't see it, but Athos nods, once, a quiet gesture. While he knows that Treville knows they are the best hunters in the garrison and that they'd be the most obvious choices to protect the Cardinal, as well as Their Majesties, this strange and sudden mission was something of a Godsend, however small of one it was. It, at least, would keep Athos from being found out by two of the three most important people in Paris – and two of the most important people in his life.

Porthos opens his mouth to argue, but Athos cuts him off. "Very well. Where was the beast headed?"

"The groundskeeper said towards the Porte Saint-Antoine," Treville answered. "It's probably out of the city by now."

"I'm sure we'll be able to track it," Aramis said. "After all, as you said, we are the best."

"Then see to it that you find the beast," Treville said with a firm nod. "Dismissed."

They all nodded, leaving the captain's office and heading back down to the courtyard. Porthos and Athos, already geared up and ready to set out, went to fetch the horses while Aramis finished putting on all his belts and baldrics. As they were tacking up, Porthos shot Athos a crooked grin.

"Well, I know trash duty isn't your favorite," he said with a chuckle – trash duty was the affectionate term for making runs to dispose of one or two creatures, and was usually Treville's way of disciplining a Huntsman who had done something wrong. "But it does beat followin' that windbag Richelieu around all night, don't it?"

Athos smirked a little. Oh, if only Porthos knew the whole truth of it.

"Yes, Porthos. I supposed it does."

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><p>The thurible swung back and forth slowly, filling the immediate area with the heady smell of incense. It was heavy, and the Latin tome that Richelieu held in his other hand was hardly any lighter; fortunately, he knew the Masses by heart, so the heavy book was only open for the sake of looks, and he didn't have to strain to read it by the flickering torch light.<p>

It was a rather regal procession for one taking place so late in the evening. Richelieu, resplendent in his red robes, ornamental cross – a gift from the Pope himself – hanging around his neck, glittering in the light from the torches, led the procession. Louis and Anne, both dressed in their finest Easter Mass attire, followed behind; Anne would, methodically, take the cross around her neck and press it to her lips, silently mouthing along with the Cardinal's rites. The king's most trusted advisors followed, walking two abreast, and finally, Captain Treville and a guard of three Huntsmen brought up the rear, hats to their chests and each with a hand on the guard of their swords. Richelieu had been pleased to note that, as had been demanded and carefully planned for, Athos was not among the guard.

She would be pleased.

They turned down another corridor, this one a little disused, judging by the cobwebs hanging around. Richelieu continued his rite, his voice echoing through the empty corridor, eyes scanning the darkness ahead of him. While there was nothing visible to be seen, he could feel it…their party was not alone in the hallway.

There! Tucked into an alcove up ahead, he caught it – a flash of a crimson gown, quickly retreating out of the light cast by the approaching torch-bearers. As they passed the niche in the wall, he glanced into it out of the corner of his eye, seeing nothing but a pair of luminous green eyes staring at him. They disappeared quickly, before the rest of the party could see, but the look in those eyes stuck with him, sending a cold chill through him under his robes.

That was the look that said they needed to talk.

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><p>It was well past two in the morning by the time that the king and queen had finally pardoned Richelieu for the night and retired to their quarters. He hurried down the hall, back into the empty wing that he had led the procession through earlier. The heady smell of incense still hung in the air as he hurried through the halls, footsteps echoing on the stone floors. The chill down his spine, the prickling of the hair on the back of his neck standing up, told him that she was still there and waiting for him.<p>

He hurried around the corner, heading for the alcove in which she had been earlier. To his surprise, she was standing in the corridor, staring out one of the tall arch windows at the moonlit gardens. The moonlight washed out her skin even more, making her look ethereal, turning her crimson dress almost the color of spilled blood.

"Cardinal," she greeted coldly, glancing at him as though he bored her. A sneer crossed her face at the sight of the cross at his neck. "Please, keep your distance."

"I was planning on it." Richelieu glowered at her. She turned to face him.

"Is there a problem, Cardinal?"

"I suppose I could ask you the same question, Milady." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Was there a reason for the look you gave me earlier?"

"As I recall, you seemed to be in a hurry for me to enact your grand plans, Cardinal." She gave a small, annoyed sigh. "And now, I find you performing some song-and-dance to…what end?"

"The King insisted that I cleanse the palace," Richelieu said. "And, as I recall, you've not completed the task."

"I've gotten the attention of Their Majesties, haven't I?"

"By slaughtering a palace servant?" Richelieu shook his head. "Gotten their attention, yes. Made any progress in our plans? No."

"Our plans? Or your plans?"

"You know what I think the problem is?" Richelieu asked, ignoring the question. "I believe you're…distracted."

"Distracted? Hardly, Cardinal. There's nothing to distract me." Her face remained impassive, even a bit disgusted, but there was a flash of something in her eyes – something that Richelieu latched onto immediately.

"Tell me, are all vampires this terrible at lying, or are you exceptional in that respect, Milady?"

She pressed her lips together in a thin line, eyes hard as she glared at him. "I am not distracted, Cardinal."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow, trying not to smirk. "Then the presence of the Huntsman Athos would not have bothered you here. And yet, as I recall, you were quite adamant that he should not be present tonight. Wasn't that why I was supposed to send that missive to Captain Treville?"

The look on her face told him that he had hit the nail of the issue right on the head. He closed the distance between the two of them, comforted by the large cross around his neck, by the way she recoiled from it, lips curling into a snarl and giving a soft hiss. He took her by her shoulders, leaning in close.

"If this keeps up, we're both going to find ourselves with our heads on the chopping blocks," he hissed. "And yours will go on the block before mine. You need to get rid of this distraction of yours, this…Athos. Whatever history you have with him, keep it where it belongs: In the past. Because you work for me now."

"I work for you?" She jerked out of the Cardinal's hold. "We work for each other, Cardinal."

"Get rid of your distractions," Richelieu snarled. "I gave you a job. I want it done."

She cut him a cold glare, pulling the hood of her cloak up over her hair. "Oh, trust me…I'll get it done."

She swept past him, checking him in the shoulder quite hard as she passed. Once she was gone, Richelieu allowed himself to relax, making sure she was far away that she couldn't hear his heart pounding. There had been something in her eyes…something that had said that, had he not been wearing that cross, he would have been a very, very dead man.

* * *

><p>The garrison was surprisingly quiet, given the time – it was the witching hour, Milady had expected to see far more hunters around. The more she considered it, however, the more it made sense that there were so few Huntsmen about – they were out, patrolling the city, on assignments, the things hunters did.<p>

He wasn't here. She couldn't feel him there, couldn't smell him. Even after five years, she would have known him, known his presence.

There was, however, another familiar face. The Gascon boy she had remembered seeing in the tavern well over a week ago, the one she'd left for the werewolf she'd smelled in the alley. He was seated at a table, picking at a bowl of stew; the bandages wrapped around his one wrist, as well as the way he sat, favoring one side over the other, suggested he was still recovering from his injured, but…he didn't smell of werewolf. He had survived the attack without being bitten. She couldn't help but smirk a bit. He had the Devil's luck, that much, she had to admit.

I suppose he could help me out…

"Excuse me?" she ventured, coming up behind him, her hood up, making sure to keep her face in the shadows. "Could you direct me to Captain Treville?"

"Oh…he's, uh, he's not in right now," the boy – d'Artagnan, she recalled him calling himself – said, jumping slightly at her sudden appearance, his cheeks flushing pink.

"Oh. Do you know when he'll be returning?"

"He should be back before dawn…"

She offered him the barest hint of a smile, watching the blush on his face deepen from pink to crimson. "Well, I suppose I shall have to come back. Thank you…"

He nodded and turned away – and she knew that was her cue to dart away as quick as she could. She hurried, darting under the staircase and out of sight just as soon as d'Artagnan turned around, the look on his face somewhere between confusion and recognition.

"Don't I - ?" He looked around, frowning. She pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a giggle as he searched the yard for a moment to try to determine where she'd gone, before he sighed, shook his head, and turned back to his bowl.

She knew taking the stairs was out – he would see her – so she disappeared towards the back of the garrison, finding the opposite end of the suspended balcony. She leapt, grabbing the balcony and pulling herself over it with fluid grace, striding down the balcony, passing doors until she stopped at what she could only guess was Captain Treville's door. The door wasn't locked, and she slipped in easily.

"The Cardinal wants you out of the way," Milady murmured to herself, crossing the room, towards the trunk standing under Treville's window, the smell of blood getting stronger every step. She couldn't help the grin that spread over her face. She hadn't come to the garrison with a solid plan, but now…everything was falling together nicely.

The trunk was locked…but that was no problem. She placed a hand around the ornate locking mechanism on the trunk, digging her nails in, hearing the wood creak and splinter under her grip. It only took a sharp pull and a split-second, then, the lock was securely in her hand and there was a gaping hole in the front of the trunk. She threw the metal aside, opening the trunk, taking in the sight of bottles packed in tight, full of dark-red liquid. She picked one up, turning it over in her hands with a grin, before she pitched it to the floor. It broke with a satisfying crash, its contents oozing out and filling the room with the salty smell of it.

"But why get my hands dirty when I can just watch you destroy yourself?"

* * *

><p>It was nearly dawn when Athos, Porthos, and Aramis rode up to the gates of the garrison, the latter two weary and ready for bed, the former keeping a nervous eye on the horizon. As they passed through the gates, Aramis yawned, scrubbing a hand over his face.<p>

"Well," he said, disappointed, "that was a waste."

"Tell me 'bout it," Porthos agreed, reining in his horse in the middle of the yard as the stable hand hurried forward. "Ride all the way out to the bleeding borders for a pack of wild dogs pickin' at a sheep carcass. Not what I took this job to do."

"We didn't ride all the way out to the borders," Athos remarked crisply, dismounting his steed. Roger snorted, nudging his nose against Athos's shoulder before allowing the stable boy to take his reins.

"You get what I mean," Porthos said. "Ride all that way for a bunch of wild dogs. Groundskeeper blind or something?"

"Now, Porthos, don't be rude," Aramis said with a barely-contained smile. "He might just be stupid."

"Or drunk," his companion added with a rumble of laughter.

"At any rate," Athos said, catching the attention of his comrades, "I'll report in to Captain Treville. Let him know it was a false alarm."

Aramis glanced at him, brow furrowing, studying his face long enough that it made Athos glare at him.

"What?"

"You don't think it was a false alarm, do you?"

Truth to tell, Athos didn't think it was a false alarm. He had been thinking all night, on the ride out after this supposed beast the palace groundskeeper saw, while poking around looking for this 'vicious man-eating werewolf', and all on the ride back, that it all seemed…off. That on the night the Cardinal has insisted on going to the palace himself with a thurible packed full of incense and a copy of the Latin Bible, dressed in his most ornamental robes and claiming that he'd be blessing the palace – or, as he claimed, using the power of God to rid the palace of its menace – that the werewolf they suspected had killed the girl at the palace, Caroline, would pop up. Take the three most prominent of the King's Huntsmen out of the city until damn near dawn.

It all seemed a little suspicious.

But to accuse the Cardinal of such would only invite scorn from the Cardinal and the possibility of the King's wrath.

Besides, Athos had no solid evidence. Just a gnawing feeling in his gut.

"It was probably just a mistake," he said with a shrug. "I'll go report to Treville."

He crossed the yard, ascending the stairs to Treville's office. Distantly, he heard Aramis murmur to Porthos.

"I don't think he thinks this was just a mistake."

"Good," Porthos replied quietly, as Athos reached the top of the staircase. "That makes two of us."

Athos couldn't help but smirk at the statement, striding down the walkway and stopping at Treville's door, giving a sharp knock. He could smell something, sharp and tangy and awfully familiar, enough to make his mouth water.

_It can't be…can it..?_

Treville opened the door only enough to peer out, his expression grave. "The werewolf?"

He shook his head. "A pack of wild dogs. A mistake."

"You don't think so."

"Is it really that obvious?" With the door open wider, Athos could smell it now, and there was no mistaking what it was. He clenched his hands at his sides, swallowing hard at the sudden tightness in his throat, mouth filling with saliva at the smell. "Captain…are you…are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Treville answered. "You…you might want to step inside, Athos."

He opened the door just wide enough for the Huntsman to slip inside. He did, pushing the door closed behind him, turning…and then he froze, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

The two trunks that had been placed under the windows in the captain's chambers had been overturned, their contents – bottles – strewn and broken across the floor. Most of the bottles had been full, and now, the liquid inside of them was soaking into the floorboards, thick and crimson, the smell enough to make Athos's head spin in delight, even as his heart dropped in horror. He staggered forward a few feet, dropping to his knees and picking up a half-shattered bottle, watching in some strange mixture of horror and fascination as the liquid inside of it dribbled out. He touched his fingers to it, put his shaking hand to his lips, letting the taste of it, copper and salt, wash over his tongue.

"Oh…"

"I'm sorry, Athos," Treville apologized grimly.

"Is..?"

He nodded. "Every bottle. There's little I can do to save it, I'm afraid."

There was so much of it on the floor; he could have lowered his head and lapped at it like a dog at a stream. For a moment, the idea passed through his mind, and just as soon as it came, it was gone, leaving him feeling sick with shame. Was he really so controlled by his thirst that he'd resort to licking blood off the floor like an animal? He sighed, closing his eyes.

"Who did it?"

"I don't know." Treville dropped something heavy in front of him. Opening his eyes, he saw that it was the lock to one of the trunks. It had been ripped from the face of the trunk; Athos picked it up, turning it over in his hands, heart sinking. "But whoever did it, they weren't human."

"And they knew just what they were looking for," Athos remarked. "And what they were doing."

Things were starting to make sense now. Treville had been at the palace that evening, leading a regiment of lesser-trained Huntsmen in guarding the King and Queen while Richelieu conducted his song and dance of blessing the palace. And he had been out with Porthos and Aramis, chasing down some werewolf that probably never existed in the first place. That would have given whoever had destroyed the stash enough time to make it to Treville's unguarded office, break into the trunks, and destroy the bottled blood.

Destroying the blood was a calculated move. Without regular access to Treville's stores, he would either have to scrounge for himself or starve it out. Scrounging for himself was just a bad idea, he'd learned the hard way. Starving it out? He'd have about a week, tops, before things started getting bad.

And once they got bad, well…he knew they would get very bad, very quick.

Whoever had done this, they had known what they were doing.

It wasn't random. The assignment they'd gone to deal with wasn't real – it was a cleverly-planned deception to get them away from the garrison for a while. To make sure Athos was gone.

It was personal.

Athos sighed, staring down at the lock in his hand. Treville came up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll try to replenish the stock as quickly as I can."

"Thank you, Captain."

"But in the meantime, you can't go without. You know that."

"I know."

"You know that, if it comes down to it – "

"No." The offer had been a standing one ever since Treville had found him out four years ago, but it was an offer he absolutely refused to take. "I can't."

Treville let go of his shoulder, looking down at him gravely. "You have to do something."

"I know." He stood, handing the busted lock back to Treville. "Do you want me to help you clean?"

"It's fine, I've got it," Treville insisted, shaking his head. "Just…go and get some rest."

He nodded, heading for the door to the office, knowing he could get back to his room before the sun really came up. Just as his hand closed over the doorknob, however, Treville spoke.

"Athos?"

He looked over his shoulder. "Yes Captain?"

"Be careful."

Be careful. There was a lot that could be meant by those two words – and right now, he was willing to be that Treville wasn't just talking about being on the lookout from some crazed, probably inhuman man bent on destroying him in one way or another. Athos sighed, a tiny, rueful smile pulling at his lips.

"When am I not, sir?"


End file.
